


washed bright

by mnemosyne



Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S2 finale. In which Gaia pays a visit to Anders in his flat and it turns out that it's not only Bragi who can spin a food metaphor out way beyond its means.</p><p>(likely to be utterly jossed as soon as S3 begins)</p>
            </blockquote>





	washed bright

“You've come all the way over here to bring me a book.”

It's a question masquerading as a statement, but Gaia doesn't reply anyway, merely shouldering her way past Anders and into his kitchen. He shuts the door and follows her, as she stands on tiptoes to look in his cupboards. He regards her warily for a moment. Her hair is wet from the rain that hasn't stopped for the last three days, and her jacket hangs heavily from her shoulders.

“Not, of course, that it's not nice to see my brother's girlfriend-”

“Flatmate.”

“Flatmate.” He rolls the word around on his tongue as she sets out two wineglasses and tugs a brightly labelled bottle of white from her messenger bag. “What exactly are you doing here?”

She pauses and looks straight at him, unsmiling, and briefly he remembers sunlight shadowing crinkles at the corners at her eyes.

“Brought you a book, didn't I.” she says, and huffs. Her free hand drums against the counter top as she brings the glass to her lips. Anders raises an eyebrow and looks at the faded paperback she'd thrust into his hands as soon as he'd opened his door. His thumb traces a crease down the front cover, and he can see _“ia,'99”_ in wobbling pencil beneath a tear.

“Little on the nose, don't you think?”

“Bragi's all about the poetry, I thought.”

“Doesn't mean I want to read the stuff,” he points out. “What's this really about?”

Gaia holds out a glass of wine for him, and he takes it, watching her with a careful eye. There's a cool glint in her expression and he feels cold all over.

“I'm in love with you,” she tells him, and quirks her mouth into a grimace. “Apparently I don't get a say in this.”

The wine is sweeter than Anders would like, hints of orchards and autumn leaves. “It's pretty weird for me too, you know.”

The look Gaia gives him curls the edges of his soul.

“Can I have a towel?” she asks quietly, and shrugs her jacket from her shoulders.

 

It's Sunday night and there are puddles of slowly-warming water trailing through Anders' apartment. He's trying not to look at them, but can't help a sideways glance every so often. Gaia's on his sofa now, bare feet tucked up under a cushion and rucking the fabric in a way he's fairly sure she knows is bothering him. She hasn't spoken in fifteen minutes, longer, maybe; he's not kept track.

It's not like he's ever had a problem with Gaia; she's a little short and a lot hippy for his tastes, but he can remember her laughter at his jokes and the way he can hear her eyes rolling when he calls the house looking for Axl. He's never been entirely sure what she's made of him, but maybe that's moot now.

He's halfway through a story about Ty and a birthday and a balloon shaped like Jesus when she stretches out her feet and rests them on his thigh. He can feel the muscles of her toes tense and curled and he does not push her away.

“That's not the usual reaction when I tell that story,” he informs her lightly, “though usually I don't tell it in mixed company. Ty gets a bit _Ty_ about it.”

“Ingrid told me the same story last week,” replies Gaia, whose eyes are fixed firmly on the candles on his coffee table. She's almost smiling, but her fingers are holding tight to the glass of the wine she isn't drinking and there's nothing in her voice, no hook he can curl himself around. If there is one thing Anders hates, it's feeling helpless, and it courses through him now. He bites his lip, and forces a short laugh that even to his own ears sounds weak.

“Ah, well, I did tell Ingrid.”

“You told Michele. Michele told Ingrid. And Michele told me too.”

“I'm fairly sure I told... fine. But it _is_ a good story.”

“I've got a better one,” Gaia says. Her feet flex against his leg, and he can feel them warm through the thin fabric of his trousers. Anders' hand aches to wrap itself around her ankle, to feel the skin soft beneath his fingertips. “It's about a girl who was in love with her best friend.”

“Does it star Ryan Gosling?” Anders asks. Thin toes jab his leg.

“Actually, it's not about that. It's about a girl who didn't know what she wanted to do with her life and only had that uncertainty left to count on, and then that was taken away. Like deciding if you want the chocolate mousse or if you want the tiramisu and when you think you know, because right, chocolate mousse has been your favourite for a really long time, even if sometimes you don't want chocolate mousse right at that minute, you want, like, pavlova instead, but you finally decide on chocolate mousse and it's what you want, then suddenly,” she pauses, looks up at Anders worry lines creasing her forehead. “Suddenly,” she repeats and gestures at him.

“You find out they only have apple crumble,” he finishes for her. He lets his index finger stroke gently along her ankle bone and she watches him do it, turning up her instep so her foot is lying flat against his leg. The white lace of her dress slips a little, gathering like petal-folds against her kneecap.

“Food metaphors are clumsy,” Gaia informs him, and sighs. “And stupid.”

“I wouldn't have pegged Axl as chocolate mousse,” Anders tells her. “He's more of a stollen.”

He answers with his own when a small smile crosses her face.

“The good kind. Hearty, with alcohol in it,” he continues, and then quirks an eyebrow at her. “I think the Ty story was better.”

“So do I,” Gaia raises the glass in her hands to the light and studies it. She takes a long gulp, holding the wine on her tongue before she swallows, and Anders can see every muscle in her neck working. The glass is all but empty when she replaces it, a single bead of yellow-gold rolling slowly down its stem.

“This is shit, Anders,” Gaia says. She withdraws her foot and Anders almost whimpers with the sudden loss of contact. She puts her wineglass on the table and leans forward, both feet on the floor.

“What happened to 'My Lord Bragi'?” he asks her, and is only half joking. She exhales slowly, elbows resting on her knees.

“You bring that up again and I might have to punch you in the kidney. And I have nurse training. I know how to do that.” He's not sure if she's kidding, and it's his own healthy sense of self-preservation that leaves him silent now. Gaia stands, steps forward, holds out her hands to stop him when Anders tries to rise with her. “Don't. You know, I thought Stacey was just crazy - like, _batshit_ \- with her handmaiden stuff. But I can hear her, you know? Inside me. _Screaming_ that I'm not just fawning all over you. And that's just weird. I don't know how to handle that yet.”

“There are _many_ women who feel that way about me,” Anders tells her.

Gaia kicks him in the shin.

She has surprisingly strong leg muscles. His cry of dismay is met with a long giggle, and even if there's a touch of hysteria slicing through, he is surprised at how gratified he is at the sound.

“Oh stop whining,” she says to Anders' hands that are now wrapped firmly around his own leg. 

“That _hurt_.”

“It was meant to. It made me feel better. Don't be such a baby.”

“I cant help it if I have sensitive skin. I bruise easy. You can't treat me like this. You're my god-wife.” Anders is well aware of how ridiculous he sounds, but then, there's something soft around Gaia's eyes now, even as her shoulders are squared, her heels hovering off the floor as if she'll flee at any second. She shakes her head, looks down at him; an insistent melody he doesn't quite recognise is playing in the back of his head.

“This is shit, Anders,” she says again, softer this time. He catches the scent, her scent, of falling leaves, of salt, of ever so faintly, the warm copper of blood and apples.

“You're not my type either,” he says, and takes her hand in his. 


End file.
